


Cygnus

by swat117



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, England (Country), Husbands, M/M, Vacation, cottage life, did I mention swans?, fluff and banter, honk honk (that's swan for 'cavity inducing')
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25400584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swat117/pseuds/swat117
Summary: David and Patrick and a cottage not unlike Kate Winslet's fromThe Holiday.But this time the cottage is actually in England.(Or, husbands on vacation.)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 64
Kudos: 187





	Cygnus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ICMezzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ICMezzo/gifts).



> It was suggested that I might, for research, need to write something, _for research_ , set in the shire cottage not dissimilar to the one I am currently staying in. I laughed this off. Yet here we are, just a few short days later. 
> 
> Dedicated to ICMezzo who planted this seed and who also may be celebrating something today. 
> 
> A big honk of thanks to MoreHuman for the beta.  
> And also to this-is-not-nothing.

Twenty regal, bright-white swans reside on the stretch of the River Avon that winds through the property. They float atop the still, shallow water in groups of two or three. They are there every day, without fail, having migrated no more than a couple dozen meters away from where they swam the day before. David has started naming them after his mother’s wigs.

"That’s obviously Maureen," David says, making Patrick look up from his book.

"Are you going to be able to tell which one she is tomorrow?” Patrick asks.

"Obviously. Can’t you tell the difference in her posture? She means business."

"And also, how do you know _it_ is a _she?_ "

"Will you, god—“ David swats Patrick with his own long abandoned paperback.

"It’s just that we came out here to read, so..."

"Forgive me, Lord Byron, for enjoying nature over the English language."

“I love not Man the less, but nature more.”

“What?”

“Byron.”

“ _Why—_ “

“Academic decathlon."

"You are so,”

David never finishes that sentence.

 _What?_ Patrick asks with his eyes. _I’m so what?_

🦢

A chapter of silence later, David asks, “Are swans the ones that mate for life?”

"I think it’s penguins," Patrick says without looking up, though he abandons all hope for the page.

“No, penguins are the ones where the dad cares for the egg. I saw _Happy Feet_."

This Patrick looks up for. He smiles at his husband’s calculating face. “Maybe it’s swans and penguins?” he says. "Actually, I think it’s a lot of birds. Are you trying to tell me something?"

“Yeah, I was thinking of opening up our marriage."

"To include swans?"

Davis rolls his eyes.

 _What?_ Patrick asks again. _Just say it._

🦢

“—infuriating!" David says between kisses. David is on top of him in their quaint, four-poster Tudor bed. (They left the swans outside.) “You’re so. That smirk! There! But why do I still find it so hot!”

"My question is why do you still find it so _surprising_ that you find it so hot?” Patrick replies and bites into David’s lower lip.

“God!" David groans. "Will you shut up long enough for me to take your pants off."

"I think you know my response to that."

David blushes, hand faltering on Patrick's waistband, his tell. He mumbles under his breath.

"What was that, darling?" Patrick purrs through a smile.

With gritted teeth: “Say it anyway.”

Patrick curves the smile into something more devious. “Make me.”

🦢

This has been the routine for a few days now: wake up, breakfast, take a walk in the gardens, sit along the river, tumble back inside and fool around, nap, make lunch, make dinner, watch a film. Fool around again, maybe. If not, just, gosh—hold each other, talk. Fall asleep and repeat it all over again.

Patrick has never encountered such a luxurious vacation before. No lists, no shuttle busses, no dinner reservations. They landed in England, made one stop at a Tesco on the way in from the airport, and haven’t left the grounds since.

David is the only thing on Patrick's spreadsheet. If he had one. This time it really is just a metaphor.

🦢

"Are we old and boring?" David asks on day three of Swan Watch.

"I wouldn’t call forty old,” Patrick replies. “And do you really think what we did last night was boring?"

David sighs. “I’ve resorted to _naming swans._ "

"You didn’t ask if I thought you were losing it, just if you were old."

David flicks his shoulder, then continues. "I’m gonna get so fucking eccentric with age. All the kids in the neighborhood are going to talk about me behind my back.”

" _Going_ to?"

"I’m starting to think you’re egging me on just to get head."

He grins down at chapter seven. "Just trying to stay young and interesting."

🦢

They eat fresh farm eggs most mornings—the yolks are a vibrant orange that looks almost unrealistic, but they taste miles better than any store-bought option. Patrick has PG Tips with milk and David makes coffee in the French press. The caretaker from the main house brings tea cakes over every few days, bitter orange and lemon drizzle so far. They scheme about what flavour could be next. Lunch always ends up being more of a snack platter—apples and cheese and hummus and crackers, eaten in bed after a midday nap that stretches too long past the time they would have been hungry for a full meal. Patrick cooks easy, fresh dinners full of vegetables from the local garden, picked and left on their doorstep by a nameless Welshman. Sunchokes and dinosaur kale and spring onions.

If it turned out they were living through _Groundhog Day_ , Patrick would make no attempts to shake the curse. He could quite literally do this forever.

🦢

"She’s looking at me!" David sounds Mariah-level zealous.

Patrick looks at him too.

“Maureen! Look!” David points and whisper-screams.

Patrick swivels his head to follow the point of David’s finger. For what it’s worth, it does appear the swan is rather focused on David. "And we’re sure that’s her?"

“Yes,” David says defensively. “Don’t you see the—” Now he is doing some weird dance with his shoulders. “She’s. Ya know. It’s her. I can tell.”

Patrick closes his book, marking the page. “What do you think she wants?”

“Wants?"

"Yeah, why’s she looking at you?”

“Does she need a reason?” David’s head is in danger of detaching from his neck in gesticulation. “She probably recognizes me. We’re, like, friends now.” David’s voice drops to instant dread. “Oh no—”

“What’s wrong?” Patrick asks, teasing pushed aside.

“What’s she going to think when we leave? I don’t want her to have abandonment issues!”

Patrick’s shoulders relax into a relieved laugh. “David, I love you. I don’t want to belittle your… connection… but, she’s a bird.”

“Don’t listen to him, Maureen. He’s just jealous!”

🦢

This cottage is smaller than their own home. An economic kitchen attached to a small dining room with big windows looking out onto the lawn. A living room with a working fireplace, but hardly the space for a full sized couch, so they squeeze onto the love seat nightly (no one complains). Up a narrow set of carpeted stairs is the bathroom and the master bed, tucked away under slanted ceilings like this used to be an attic. Everything is miniaturized, and David has to duck through some of the door frames to avoid bumping his head.

Patrick delights in watching David uncover and obsess over the authentic, un-fakeable details in decor. The clawfoot tub is real porcelain, which is apparently a big deal. The shower tiles have curly blue flowers that force a soft, admiring “Oh” from David when he first sees them. The stone floor is freezing at all times of day but, “Reminds me where I am, what this used to be,” David says, with a wistful look on his face. Patrick doesn’t understand, but has never needed to, so long as he can tell David is happy.

🦢

They watch _The Holiday_ twice. Once on the day they arrive, and again on their final night.

“Classic Nancy Meyer’s bookends. Duh,” David explains.

"Would we call it classic?”

“Before you get testy with me, remember that I know you cry every time Amanda and Graham are reunited.”

Fair enough. Jude Law in glasses was… effective.

“ _I'm not going to fall in love with you, I promise,_ ” David speaks along with the TV. "This is so much better when the cottage we're at is actually in England.”

Patrick laughs and keeps playing with David’s hair.

David keeps going. " _No, it's just that I know myself. I'm not sure I even fall in love. Not like the way other people do. How's that for something to admit?_ "

Patrick joins in. " _Well, like I said, Most Interesting Girl Award._ "

" _I'm gonna try to see that as a compliment._ "

“Mmm, do,” Patrick says and leans down to kiss his husband.

“Shh,” David pokes up at his chest. “I’m watching.”

Patrick laughs and keeps playing with David’s hair.

🦢

“Tell me your secrets!" David whines. “Tell me how you’re so happy just floating along.”

Patrick gave up on his book two days ago but still brings it along as a prop.

“Let me know when she gets back to you,” Patrick says. "I’ll be interested in her answer."

“Okay but, _actually_. Isn’t it fascinating how they just sit. All day. Maybe a snack or two but just, sit.”

“We've been doing that for basically a fortnight now."

“Yeah but this isn’t our life,” David snaps, and the air evacuates Patrick’s lungs. “That’s not—fuck.”

“No, I, uh, I know what you mean.”

“Patrick,” David says and sits down on the bench next to him, takes the book out of his hand, replaces the book with his own hands. “You’re my swan. You’re not the problem.”

“Thanks?”

“The river is the problem. The, fucking, reeds are the problem. Shit, I’m not—this is a bad metaphor.”

“Keep going,” Patrick encourages.

“If this was our life, there would be no problem. I’d sit on the river and like, stare at you all day, every day, for the next twenty years.”

“You think we’re only going to be together for twenty more years?”

“My god.”

“Me too, though. Obviously.”

“ _Obviously._ ”

“Is there something we need to talk about?”

“I,” David starts, then pauses and looks, well, over to Maureen, Patrick thinks. “I love our life. Forty is just. Sorry, it’s just making me obsess over all these things about milestones and accomplishments and—“

“Do you not have something you want? Can I—”

“No, god, no. It’s. It’s better than I thought it would be.”

“Ah.”

“Out here I feel like. I feel it’s _okay_ to be content. Back home it’s like, I still feel like I need to reach for more. Be... unsatisfied somehow.”

“That makes sense, actually.” Patrick means it. He can’t believe he gets this life either, and it was harder not to feel avaricious amidst quarterly earnings reports, calls from parents, and reminders on Facebook of what he’d left behind.

“Yeah?” David meets his gaze. “I really like it here, if you can’t tell.”

“Oh, I can tell.” Patrick pulls their hands up to his lips and kisses the skin of David’s palm. “I think even _Maureen_ can tell. And I’m still not sure if she can tell the difference between you and that tree.”

David pouts but also leans heavier into Patrick’s side. “Don’t rub salt in the wound.”

“Not a wound. _David_. It’s—more like, scar tissue?” So, they were both stretching their metaphors today then. “You’re past it. We made it. We’re here. We’re together. Maybe it’s bumpy and weird looking, but. You’re safe.”

David has gone glossy eyed. “Thanks."

“Hey.” Patrick kisses the corner of one eye and tastes salt. “We can always just say 'fuck it' and move here if that’s what you want.”

“I think Stevie would miss me,” David says. Patrick squeezes his hand as if to say, _yeah, I would miss her too._

“She can live in the boathouse. Kristin will keep her company.”

“Are you kidding? Kristin’s a hussy.”

“Right, of course,” Patrick laughs. “Just explain to me exactly how a goose can—“

“They’re not geese!” David is back to life now, eyes red but with a light shining behind them. Patrick can’t help but smile at that. “No. You know what? You’re just riling me up now.”

“Mm hmm.” Patrick kisses the rest of David’s complaint away.

🦢

David is the sleepier of their pair. He sneaks upstairs when Patrick is lost in a puzzle or in the voice of some smooth BBC commentator. Patrick finds him there, five or fifteen minutes later, soft jawed and crinkly eyed. His black hair is a stark contrast to the dove-white sheets. A bit, one might say, like the way a swan’s black bill meets its own white feathers.

Patrick always joins him under the covers, whether he’s tired or not.

🦢

“I would like to come back here, though,” David says, curled up next to him. The fire’s dying down, but Patrick is warm enough from the body heat anyway. “To… remember."

“Me too.”

“Same time next year?"

“Done.”

“And the year after that?”

“And the year after that.”

“And the year after that?"

“And the year after that.”

“And the year after—“

“David.”

“Hm?”

“Indefinitely."

“You know I'm gonna hold you to that.” David looks right at him, serious.

Patrick squeezes him tighter. “You’re my swan, David Rose. For life.”

“Hmm, that’s a nice offer.” David reaches over to tangle their fingers together. “Guess I’m gonna have to break it off with Maureen.”

“Oh, did you two have plans?”

“A swan can dream,” David says with a flourish.

“You are so,”

Patrick doesn’t finish that sentence yet. They have time.

**Author's Note:**

> Things I have learned living in a cottage:  
> 1\. They are very poorly insulated.  
> 2\. I am not good at making fires.  
> 3\. All swans in England are [owned by the Queen?](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/why-the-queen-owns-every-swan)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Cygnus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183391) by [Amanita_Fierce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanita_Fierce/pseuds/Amanita_Fierce), [petrodobreva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrodobreva/pseuds/petrodobreva), [sunlightsymphony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunlightsymphony/pseuds/sunlightsymphony)




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